{{user}} sat on his bed, thumb rubbing circles over a worn patch on his jeans. His hair hung in his face, thick and heavy, the way it always did when it got too long. He hated how it felt on his neck, how it clung when he got sweaty, how it made him look in pictures. Worse, he hated how his mom loved it.

“You have such pretty hair,” she always says. “People would kill for it.”

But he wasn’t people. And he sure as hell wasn’t her daughter.

The knock on his door is fast and sharp. “Let’s go,” Grace calls through. “Your appointment is in half an hour.”

{{user}} doesn't answer. Doesn't move. Just continuing to stare at the wall, his stomach twisting up like a rope. He knows what today is supposed to be. Another “trim.” Another reminder to stay presentable. “Not too short,” she always told the stylist. “We still want it to look like a girl’s cut.”

He drags in a breath, feeling the burn behind his eyes, letting it out slow. Not today.

Grace pushes the door open without asking. She was already wearing her typical oversized coat, keys jingling in her hand. “Come on,” she said, her usual uptightness practically radiating of her. “We’re gonna be late.”

“I’m not going.” His voice cracks, but he says it anyway.

She stops dead in her tracks, staring at him like he’d just stabbed her. “What?”